


The cheeky private

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blowjobs, H.I.A.T.U.S. challenge, M/M, Military Kink, PWP, Smut, Uniforms, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 09:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11871111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: Sherlock is at the Military Academy under false identity to investigate a firearm traffic. He meet John, who is deeply dissatisfied with his current life...Actually it's just a big excuse for hot Johnlock sex.





	The cheeky private

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the August [H.I.A.T.U.S. Johnlock challenge. Theme is military kink and I used the visual prompt.](https://hiatustory.tumblr.com/post/163500531063/augusts-theme-is-military-kink)

Ella looks at her watch and sighs inwardly: the session is almost over.

"Today you haven’t said anything yet."

"What would you like to talk about, weather? Horrible, as always in London."

She looks at John with indulgence.

"About your work, John, I would like to talk about your work."

"There’s nothing to say."

"Do you like what you do?"

John shrugs.

"It's a job. It's better than being unemployed."

"That's all?"

"What else do you want me to tell you? I teach military tactics to boys who, once they leave my classroom, have already forgotten everything."

"I thought it would be gratifying for you to stay in the military environment even after your accident."

Problem is, John doesn’t want just to "stay in the military environment," he would like to go back to Afghanistan, but he knows it's impossible, with his limping leg. Therefore he was relegated to teaching military tactics at the Military Academy, looking at young and fit kids who would soon go on the battlefield where John once belonged.

At the end of (yet another, useless, frustrating) therapeutic session, John limps toward the dormitory of the Military Academy, in the depressing, grey room they had given him. His salary doesn’t allow him to rent an apartment alone.

John sat on the window sill, looking with envy at the other soldiers. He misses the battlefield more than he thought; Ella continues to say that he needs time to adjust to his new life, but John doesn’t think he can, if his life doesn’t take a turn for the better soon.

 

Usually Sherlock doesn’t accept the cases his brother Mycroft proposes, because he likes to keep alive their brotherly rivalry, and also because they are really boring: Mycroft’s problems often concern a politician who risks his reputation for having betrayed his wife, nothing worthy of his time.

But this time it different: it’s about an illegal guns traffic at the Military Academy.

Sherlock is (pretty) sure that Mycroft doesn’t know his little kink, but anyway, to protect his secret, he opposed the usual annoying fuss before taking the case.

Sherlock has a weakness for men in uniform, those who emit authority only with the look or tone of voice. He possesses a genetic rebellion to order and discipline and could never have been a soldier himself, but with the right captain, he would more than willingly submit himself and be obedient.

Of course, just a uniform is not enough to feed his fantasies (Anderson in uniform would have no effect on him, dear God): it should be a particular, unique man; that's why his kink has so far remained almost exclusively an abstract fantasy to satisfy the needs of his body.

And, while he is about to enter the Military Academy under false identity, he doesn’t expect to find that unique man for real, just some abstract inputs to be put in the room of his Mind Palace devoted to erotic fantasies.

And, in the meantime, he should stop the clandestine traffic of firearm (boring).

 

Getting into the academy is so easy that Sherlock wants to scream his frustration: it’s enough to flash a (fake) MI5 badges to the guard at the entrance and the gate opens.

Ridiculous.

He could have asked a real badge to Mycroft, but then the case would have been hardly a 2, as finding the trafficker will be already tragically easy. In a strict environment like the military one, people who commit some crime have a giant red arrow pointing to the head, as they’re skittish, nervous and elusive.

 

Today is a terrible day, more than others: John was called to replace the shooting instructor, and as he watched the recruits shooting at the targets, he realized he would never experience again the thrill of a battle. No, his future here contemplates only the lessons in his little classroom.

Unbearable.

And that's why now he’s sitting alone at a table in the common room, in front with a cold, horrible coffee from the cafeteria, and he’s looking at his phone, open on a page of real estate and flat rent ads.

He wants to change his life, work, something, anything but he doesn’t even know how.

He feels pathetic.

 

Sherlock walks along the hallways of the main building as if he belonged to that place: confidence is everything, and in fact no one stops him asking questions about his presence there.

No firearms trafficker in sight, and the soldiers he see around are so young that they could almost be his children, and he will not fantasize about them (creepy) for sure. Sherlock is so bored that he is thinking of leaving, but then he wouldn’t hear the end of it from his brother (annoying).

He stops in front of the cafeteria, looking at the soldiers sitting at the tables, doesn’t see anything strange, then moves to the adjoining common room, where many soldiers are relaxing: some are chatting, others are playing cards or table tennis, no one seems suspicious, until his eyes stop on a Captain sitting alone: he is skittish and nervous, but for reasons that have nothing to do with firearms trafficking.

From the cane leaning on the wall, his posture, the real estate site he’s watching on his phone, Sherlock deduces many things about the Captain: that he was injured in action, that he is deeply dissatisfied of his current lifestyle and that he want to change it.

And from his sturdy and compact body wrapped in the uniform, he deduces that he is precisely his ideal of man.

Almost as he has felt Sherlock's eyes on his neck, John turns to the door and their gaze meet.

It runs something powerful among them, like a high-voltage electric charge: a shiver runs down Sherlock's back, and John's attention is immediately captured by the (handsome) stranger. But if his first thought is  _ “why, hello there”, _ ’ the second one is  _ “who the hell is this civilian?” _

No one else has questioned the presence of Sherlock in the room, just this intriguing Captain: he noticed that Sherlock doesn't belong there and probably wouldn't be fooled by a fake MI5 badge.

Sherlock retreats rapidly, walking fast down the hall and, after a moment of surprise, John rises and follows him.

He don’t even notice that he has forgotten his cane.

He sees the flaps of the man's coat disappearing around the corner, along the corridor leading to the emergency stairs, and walks faster.

"Hey you!"

The man ignores him and speeds up, so John chases and blocks him on the stairs, barking an order.

"Stop! Who the hell are you? Identify yourself."

Cpt. John Watson says the tag on his jacket.

His voice is so strong and full of authority that Sherlock stops immediately.

The soldier’s grip around his arm is steady and firm: he could break it easily, if he wanted, and his blue eyes are considering the possibility.

"My name is Sherlock, but who I am is not important."

"Oh really?" The Captain answers, the voice dripping sarcasm.

"The real question is, do you want to help me stop a clandestine traffic of guns?"

"Waht?"

"Someone is bringing illegally firearms out of the Academy, my mission is to find out who the culprit is."

There is no reason why John should believe him. For what he knows, this man could be the trafficker himself, or a madman, or a mythomaniac.

But there's something in his gray eyes that prompts John to trust him.

Instinct. Or madness, most likely.

But he hasn’t felt such a thrill of excitement and adrenaline in a long time, and in the end he loosened his grip on this Sherlock’s arm.

The man is smiling like a maniac.

"Are you ready to follow me on the battlefield, Captain?"

"I don’t even know you, I..."

"But you trust your guts, and you trust me," he answers with a cheeky smile.

It’s true.

As crazy as it is, John thinks this Sherlock is telling the truth; he thinks also that the man would need sound discipline, and he would be more than happy to give it.

Christ, he must be gone completely nuts.

He rises his eyes on Sherlock, who’s looking at him with parted lips and ragged breaths, as he has just read his mind, and liked what he had seen.

It seems they’re on the same page, here.

Sherlock climbs a step, and for a moment John is sure that  _ something  _ is going to happen right here, but then the taller man murmurs "later", and runs down the stairs in a fluid motion.

John huffs and follows him. Better than that later isn’t too much later.

"Are your information correct? Perhaps these young men here will not become brilliant strategists, but I think they are honest."

"I'm sure," Sherlock replies with arrogance, and John feels the urge to spank him.

Fuck, he’s beyond craziness.

Sherlock goes on rambling: "Just as I'm sure that you hate your role as a teacher, you're thinking about changing your life, but economic issues are holding you back.”

John gapes at him. “How did you…?”

“Simply deduction. Have you ever thought about flatsharing?”

“Wait, is it a proposal?”

Sherlock gives him a loopside smile.

"As I said, later."

John huffs again, then tries a joke.

"I don’t know, the only dirty thing I noticed here at the Academy is the laundry van that takes away the linen to wash."

Sherlock stops, and when he turns to look at John, his eyes are literally sparkling with excitement.

"John, you're a fabulous conductor of light! That's exactly how the firearms come out of the Academy."

"But who... oh!"

"What?"

"Now that you make me think about it, sergeant Ludman, who runs the laundry service, has the same salary I have, but recently he changed his car and took the family to vacation in Greece. And I was wondering how he could afford it. Shit!"

"That's our man. Where's the dirty laundry kept?"

"In the warehouse to the left of the entrance gate."

"Hurry!"

In the courtyard there is already the white van of the laundry company.

Sherlock runs toward it, leaving John slightly back. The soldier calls him, shouts that it’s dangerous and he has to wait for him, but Sherlock doesn’t listen, overthrows a a dirty linen basket, and lot of ammunitions roll out from the bottom.

"I was right."

The van driver appears behind him with a crowbar in his hand, and John tackles him before he can hit Sherlock, and punch him in the face three times to knock him out.

"The driver is an accomplice. There's always something ..." Sherlock sighs. He doesn’t seem scared to have risked his life, only annoyed for not having guessed about the driver. 

But it's not over yet: adrenaline run through John's veins and his ears hear the unmistakable click of a gun's safety: Ludman is on the door of the warehouse and he’s aiming at them with a gun.

“Get down!”

John sprints toward Sherlock and drags him behind the van, just before a storm of bullets hit the metal and pierce through it.

The windows of the van shatter, some bullets whistle too near their heads, but they’re miraculously unharmed.

“He’s recharging the gun. Stay behind the tire” John barks, and this time Sherlock obeys.

The Captain curses and rummages through another laundry basket and fortunately finds a loaded gun. He hasn’t much time: the van seems to be made of tin and the next time Ludman could kill them both, so John crawls under the van and take aim without hesitation.

A single shot is all it takes to kill Ludman, who falls heavily on the ground.

John takes some deep breaths to calm himself and slowly becomes aware of the surrounding again: many soldiers are screaming and running toward them.

Better later than never.

“I think we’re safe now.”

He crawls back, but when he looks around, Sherlock has disappeared. On the ground, near the tire of the van, there’s a little white note, written in a nervous and angular handwriting:  _ “The full name is Sherlock Holmes and the address il 221B, Baker Street. Later.” _

The soldier huffs a laugh, then lies down on  the lawn, looking at the sky: he hasn’t feel so alive in a long time.

_ "Later," _ he promises to himself (and to Sherlock),  _ "Certainly I'm not going to waste this invitation." _

But when the General comes and starts asking question, John thinks that the "later" will never come: there is an unconscious civilian, a soldier killed and weapons where they should not be. Anyway John’s statement is surprisingly short, because a phone call from the MI5 Headquarters clarifies everything.

 

At the end of the craziest day of his life (and he got shot in Afghanistan!) John can choose: to return to his small, dingy room and prepare the lesson for the next day, or to go to Sherlock's place.

His feet bring him quickly away from the Academy without any regret; after all, a crazy day deserves the craziest of choice.

He still wears the military uniform, but if his intuition is right, Sherlock will be happy with his decision.

The elegant black door is half-open and the notes of a violin resonate in the hall. They come from the top floor, and John climbs the steps as if he already knew that old house.

Sherlock is facing the windows, wearing a blue silk dressing gown and is barefoot; he immediately stops playing when sees John reflected on the glass.

“You came.”

His voice has lost its arrogant note and sounds almost uncertain.

“You talked about a later… am I wrong?”

“No, but I almost got you killed today. People usually don’t react too well to that.”

“I know the risks of the battlefield.”

Sherlock felt something with John since the first moment, a kind of connection he never felt before, but he is aware of being odd, at best, and wasn’t sure that John wanted to see him again, or to go beyond a light flirting.

Instead John is here, so Sherlock put the violin in its case and steps slowly toward him. Atmosphere is electric, like when their eyes met for the first time.

The V of Sherlock’s dressing gown shows a glimpse of fair, creamy skin, and a pleasant warm pools in John’s low abdomen.

“And here you are” Sherlock says, stopping just inside his personal space.

“And here I am” John repeat almost solemnly, closing the distance between them and crushing his lips to Sherlock’s.

Deep moans and harsh breaths break the silence of the room: Sherlock is greedy, eager, he tastes John’s mouth like a starving man and humps his hip, but John will have none of it, he wants for it to last, he wants to take his time and savour every moment. And he wants to teach him some discipline, so he puts his hand on Sherlock’s dressing gown and pushes him slightly.

A frustrated rumbles emerges from Sherlock’s throat, as he tries to kiss John again.

“Not so fast, private” John says, using his military voice. Sherlock’s pupils blow, his eyes are almost completely black and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows audibly.

So he was right, the mysterious Sherlock Holmes has a military kink.

“I didn’t hear your answer, private.”

“Y-yes…”

John arches an eyebrow, and Sherlock added hastily: “Yes, Captain.”

John rakes his left hand through the soft black curls. “That’s better. But you’re a rebel: today I called after you when you were running toward the van and you didn’t stop. That’s bad, a good private should always obey his Captain.”

“I know.”

John is quite surprised by how fast they’re slipped in the roleplay, but he wouldn’t complain about it for sure: he is with a gorgeous man who is sex on legs and seems happy to be pliant and submissive for him.

“And do you know what happen to unruly soldiers?”

Sherlock shakes his head and John use his hand to drag his head lower and murmur in his ear: “They got punished.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock’s voice wavers with desire: it’s an unconditional surrender to John. The soldier bites him lightly on the neck, then unties the knot of the dressing gown and the garment slips on the floor in a whisper of silk, leaving Sherlock naked, flushed, already hard and leaking.

John’s mouth covers Sherlock’s again with hard, wet kisses, and he pushes him against the cold window: the light is on and curtains are open, anyone walking down the street could look up and see Sherlock's plush bottom pressed against the glass.

The younger man moans a protest and his cheeks take a bright pink shade.

“J-John, please…”

Apparently public sex isn’t on the list of Sherlock’s kinks, but John finds it quite exciting and keeps him pressed against the window, his hand caressing and exploring the smooth and lean body. A hard pinch on a nipple makes Sherlock yelp in pleasure and pain, and John slaps him playfully on the buttocks.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to cry.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Sherlock’s leaking cock has left a big stain on John’s jacket and the soldier shakes his head, feigning disapproval.

“And surely I don’t remember giving you permission to hump on me.”

The grip on Sherlock’s hair becomes almost painful, but the man’s face is so ecstatic that John wonders if he can come just with this.

Maybe they can find it out another time.

But not now, now John has other plans for him.

“You’re not allowed to come until I say you can, do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good lad. Now, on your knees.”

Sherlock kneels on the floor and, without waiting for further prompts, starts to unbutton John’s trousers, but the soldier bats his hand away.

Sherlock looks up in confusion and John smiles dangerously.

“You’re so good with your pretty mouth, I just decide that’s the only thing you’re allowed to use.”

“But…”

John presses his crotch against Sherlock’s face.

“Feel it? I know you’re gagging for it, but we play by my rules. Use your mouth and you can have my cock, private.”

The button of the trousers is quite tricky, but Sherlock is eager and determined, and within minutes, it pops open, immediately followed by the zip.

Sherlock inhales John’s musky smell through the cotton of the briefs and kisses fervently the strong tights and the belly, before grabbing the elastic band with his teeth and yanking it down.

John’s cock is majestic, long and thick, and Sherlock salivates at the idea of putting his mouth on it. He starts at the root, lapping the hard flesh, following slowly the ridges and the veins, while John grunts his approval and puts both hands in his hair.

Sherlock licks the testicles and kisses the length from the base to the red glans and closes his mouth around it, sucking hard.

“Oh fuck…” John’s hips snaps forward, almost gagging him, and the soldier exhales a curse and apologizes: he doesn’t want to hurt him. But Sherlock shakes his head, takes a deep breath and swallows his cock again, inch by inch, until his nose meets a nest of coarse brown hair.

“You’re a wonder” John marvels, out of breath, and Sherlock hums happily around his girth; he bobs his head up and down, then he let the cock slip out almost completely from his mouth, just holding the tip leaning on the flat tongue, and looking up at John expectantly.

The soldier takes the hint and start to fuck Sherlock’s mouth in earnest, completely lost in the overwhelming, wet heat, but always careful to let him breath from time to time.

“I’m close” John grunts, trying to push out, but Sherlock closes his throat around his glans and swallows, and John loses the control on his own body and snaps his hips one, two, three times, emptying his aching balls inside Sherlock’s mouth with a scream.

Sherlock keeps lapping at John’s cock until the man hisses in pain for the overstimulation, then rubs his cheek against John’s belly.

“Am I allowed to come now, Captain?”

Sherlock’s voice is hoarse and needy, and John looks down at him: his cock lying against his stomach, almost purple. God, the poor man should be really in pain by now.

John doesn’t answer but kneels down in front of him and grabs the heavy testicles, rolling them on the palm of his right hand, and Sherlock falls forward, grabbing his shoulders in a iron grip.

“Captain, please! I need… I need…”

“Hush, I know. You were so good, private, and I will take care of you.”

He spits on his left hand and closes the fist around Sherlock’s length, allowing him to fuck it as he wants. Sherlock is almost frantic in his need, and so very vocal, and incredibly erotic that John wishes he can see him like this every day of his life.

Sherlock comes in less than a minutes and then drags John with him on the carpet.

John chuckles, kisses him sweetly on the nose and brings a sweaty lock of hair behind his ear, then becomes serious, and also a little self-conscious.

What now?

It was just a roleplay for Sherlock? A whim?

Well, not for him. He loved the crazy day, not only the mind blowing sex, but also taking down the firearms traffic at the Academy: that’s the adrenalinic life he craves for. And now that he has seen a glimpse of it, he doesn’t want to give up. But he barely knows Sherlock and he doesn’t know if...

“I can’t promise a case like this every day, but my work often brings me to the battlefield and I need an assistant” Sherlock says. He has read his thoughts again, bypassing his doubts, but John doesn’t mind, and he’s happy for the implied offer.

“Your work?”

“I’m a consulting detective.”

“Meaning?”

“Come living here and you’ll find out.”

John snorts in amusement and shakes his head.

“You’re still very, very cheeky, private.”

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, kissing John’s neck, “I’m afraid I’ll need more punishments.”

“That’s for sure” John says, hugging him.  



End file.
